


days that bind us

by PaperRevolution



Series: outer-space mover [12]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Space, Anxiety, Gen, M/M, Morning Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-18 20:39:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13108116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperRevolution/pseuds/PaperRevolution
Summary: Space AU. Glorfindel and Ecthelion’s relationship progresses. Turgon gives Ecthelion a task to do. Ecthelion makes an important decision.





	days that bind us

**Author's Note:**

> 1.) Warning for depiction/discussion of anxiety.  
> 2.) You know the drill—everyone is extremely tense, but Glorfindel is delightful.

He wakes slowly, scrunched into a warm ball. Behind him, there’s the soft rhythm of breath. Glorfindel, curled at his back with one arm loosely encircling Ecthelion’s waist, radiates heat.

Ecthelion blinks blearily. The narrow little berth he shares with Glorfindel is dimly lit; it’s after lights-up, then, but the alarm hasn’t gone off. Why hasn’t the alarm gone off?

Are they late? How late are they? He bolts upright, pushing his hair impatiently out of his face.

“Shit,” he mutters, heart thudding against his ribs. “Shit shit shit.”

“Hey,” Glorfindel’s voice, sounding surprisingly wide-awake, startles him. “What’s up?”

Ecthelion glances sideways at him. He’s still lying on his side, wide-eyed and wakeful and wearing a quizzical expression.

“The alarm didn’t go off! We’re probably late—We’ll have missed breakfast at least—Oh, fuck. Fuck. Laurë, we have a briefing this morning—“

“We’re not late,” Glorfindel cuts him off, propping himself up on an elbow and looking up at Ecthelion. “And the alarm did go. I turned it off.”

This pulls Ecthelion up short. “You let me sleep through the alarm?”

Equal parts sheepish and earnest, Glorfindel shrugs. “You looked peaceful.” He presses his lips together for a moment, the way he does when he’s trying not to say something, and then goes on almost immediately: “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you look peaceful. And I figured you could use a bit more rest—I know you haven’t been sleeping properly.”

Ecthelion exhales in a rush. “What’s the time?”

“Nearly fifteen after lights-up.” Glorfindel reaches out and tugs lightly at his arm. “Lie back down again, will you? We’ve got time.”

Pulling in a long, steadying breath, Ecthelion complies, facing Glorfindel this time. “Don’t do that again. Okay? Please—I hate waking up like that.”

Glorfindel’s brows furrow, a little crease appearing between his eyes.

“Sorry,” he says, softer than is usual for him.

Feeling ridiculous now, Ecthelion shrugs half-heartedly. “It’s not—It doesn’t matter.”

They’re both quiet for a moment, and the silence has a weight.

“Five minutes?” asks Ecthelion, quirking an eyebrow.

Glorfindel grins. “Five minutes,” he says. Then he kicks off the bedsheets, pulls Ecthelion close. They roll so that Glorfindel’s astride him, and Ecthelion feels shot-through with anticipation like the heart-racing, fire-belly rush of a double shot of moonstill, neat. Future-drunk, frantic.

*

They miss breakfast, but make it to Turgon’s briefing right on time. They aren’t even, Ecthelion notes as he and Glorfindel drop breathlessly into a pair of vacant seats opposite Rog and Egalmoth, the last ones there. Turgon himself is still absent.

“Morning,” says Glorfindel brightly to no one in particular.

Rog smirks at him over a cup of coffee. “Enjoy breakfast?”

“We haven’t had—“ Glorfindel begins, and then his face flushes scarlet. “Oh.”

“It wasn’t bad,” says Ecthelion nonchalantly, fighting the urge to laugh. “Service was a bit rushed, though, you know?”

Rog guffaws loudly. At the other end of the table, Elemmakil clears his throat pointedly.

“So, er, did anyone else see the broadcast about—“ he begins in an awkward rush, but cuts himself off suddenly as the doors slide open and in walks Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, in full uniform.

Ecthelion’s breath snags in the back of his throat. He watches her approach the table with an air of defiance and pull up a chair.

“Aredhel,” Galdor says gravely, giving her a sombre half-smile. “How are things?”

Everyone in the room is either staring openly at Aredhel or pointedly not looking at her. Ecthelion doesn’t want to be in either category, so he gives her a quick glance and a small smile and then forces his eyes away.

(Your fault, says a voice in his head, loud and tinny and discordant. Yourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfaultyourfault.)

(Fog everywhere. And gunfire and screams and gunfire and screams and gunfire and screams and—)

“Morning, all,” the door has opened again and it’s Turgon, this time. He takes a seat beside Aredhel. For a brief moment his eyes roam around the room, acknowledging each of them, and Ecthelion, trying to make himself breathe normally, hopes his expression is at least passably somewhere in the realm of neutral.

“I’ll try to keep things brief, this morning,” Turgon starts, adding dryly: “No pun intended.” He pauses for a fraction of a moment. “Firstly, as you know...”

(Running blindly back into the fog where is she where is she screaming her name where is she yelling himself hoarse where is she—?)

He breathes. In for five. Hold for five. Out for five. One-two-three-four-five. One-two-three-four-five. One-two-thr—

“Sub-Lieutenant Fountain.”

Ecthelion lets out his breath in a rush. “I’m sorry—What was that?”

He can feel everyone’s eyes on him and it makes his skin prickle.

“Officer Ar-Feiniel wishes to return to duty,” Turgon repeats, presumably. “Would you be able to re-induct her? Have her shadow you for a while?”

His stomach plummets.

(Yourfaultyourfaultyourfault.)

“I—“ he takes another breath. His chest feels tight. “Yes. Of course. Yes. Sir.”

Turgon dips him a brief nod. If he notices anything is out of the ordinary, he doesn’t acknowledge it. “Good,” is all he says, crisply. And then, directing his attention to Rog: “Now, about our security protocols, Officer Hammersmith, could you remind me...”

*

It’s almost time for lights-out when Ecthelion lets himself into control room C. In here, it’s cool and dim and quiet, and not at all his usual scene. But the day has been a press of noise and voices and tasks and he feels the pressure like a physical thing; head ringing, chest constricted. And he needs—well, he doesn’t know what he needs.

“Hey,” he greets Elemmakil, who occupies his usual seat bracketed by flashing and blinking screens. “How’s it going?”

Elemmakil turns to look at him in surprise. “Do you, er, want something?”

Ecthelion feels a twinge of guilt. It must, he realises suddenly, be an awfully lonely existence, being Elemmakil. He shakes his head.

“No. No, I just wanted...” he trails off with a hepless shrug and drops into an empty seat. “I just felt like...”

(“Fix yourself, before you go around trying to fix other people.”)

“Elemmakil?” The words are out of his mouth before he even knows he’s going to say them. “If I told you their names, would you be able to find my parents? I need to get a message to them.”

**Author's Note:**

> The calm before the storm, as it were...


End file.
